


limerence

by dvntldr



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Newt Scamander, Hurt Original Percival Graves, M/M, Minor Queenie Goldstein/Jacob Kowalski, Minor Theseus Scamander/Leta Lestrange, Original Percival Graves & Theseus Scamander Friendship, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Protective Newt Scamander, Workaholic Original Percival Graves, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 22:42:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18973987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvntldr/pseuds/dvntldr
Summary: limerence;(n.) the state of being infatuated with another person———The door opens and Percival forces himself not to flinch. The utter silence that remains unperturbed even as Grindelwald walks towards him makes slight fear flutter in his heart, even if he’ll never admit it. Percival’s own wand touches his forehead, the holder giving him a cruel smirk that splits his face open, like a bloody, gaping wound....“Ready for another round, Director?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly just started this as a way to spark ideas for chapters for my tua fanfic, but then it snowballed and this happened  
> —  
> warning: this is not a happy fic; lots of whump, occasional swearing, brief descriptions of rape and a general boatload of angst. run away now and call 911 for percival while you still can

Pain cleaves clean through his shaking body—Percival gasps, cries out wordlessly and twists away from prying hands as Grindelwald gives him a soothing smile, pushing Percival’s matted hair out of his eyes. 

 

“Doesn’t it hurt, Percy? Why do you fight? Don’t you want it to be over?” A swish of a wand and Percival shakes apart, heaving ragged sobs in response to the fresh, stuttering burst of agony in his back. He’s face-down on the bloodstained tiles, rasping breaths hitching in his throat everytime he inhales—an ugly wound bisects his nose, runs down the length of his face and stops in a brutal gash along his throat. Grindelwald sighs and yanks his head up callously, forcing a Blood Replenisher potion down Percival’s throat—the auror coughs and sputters at the brutal violation, eyes watering as he starts to dry heave.

 

“Aren’t you tired of being so stubborn? Look where stubbornness has gotten you. Isn’t it exhausting?” A hand cups his face and he whimpers at the feeling of the dark wizard probing his mind, forcing his mental shields to remain as they are. Grindelwald tsks at him disappointedly—agony roars in Percival’s ears and he sucks in cold air desperately, his constricted lungs screaming for oxygen. The slashing curse is a particular favourite of Grindelwald’s—the man’s wand flicks lazily over and over again, carving crimson lines into his back with every movement, deep enough to score bone. 

 

“Shh, Percy. Let me in. I’ll take care of you.” Gentle hands, a stark difference from the previous displays of cruelty, caress his head, tilt Percival’s chin up so Grindelwald can tug him into a rough kiss—Percival whines weakly, struggles before screaming hoarsely as a spell crushes his clavicle without a second thought, the sound of snapped bone serving as a makeshift reminder of the consequences of defiance.

 

Blood collects in his mouth as he gags slightly and spits it out with his remaining energy; it runs down his chin, but he can’t bring himself to care about how unsanitary it is. Blue eyes flash menacingly at him; there’s a word, a spell of some sort and then his chest constricts, crushed under the overwhelming pressure—he can’t breathe, every inhalation feeling like there are hot knives being stabbed into his ribcage. Coughing wetly, unfocused eyes hazily lock onto where his blood splatters the tiles. 

 

Agony erupts in his head as Grindelwald tears through his mind like it’s nothing more than a toy, wracking coughs ripping through Percival, the auror forcing himself to maintain his shields—he just has to endure this, he  _ has _ to—his wrist snaps backwards and he doesn’t even have the energy to scream anymore, simply letting out harsh, grating sobs that drain him more than anything. 

 

The simultaneous mental and physical attacks are taking its toll on his body. Percival jerks limply at the third Crucio, hazy panic welling up in his chest as Grindelwald wrestles his way through Percival’s first line of defence; a conjured dragon greets him as the second, breathing violet flames as Grindelwald curses lowly and yanks himself out of Percival’s mind again. The director smiles mirthlessly up at the dark wizard with bloody lips—if he dies here, at least he’ll die without having given his memories to Grindelwald, and that’s the best he can hope for. 

 

Grindelwald is saying something, but his eardrums have ruptured long ago—he lets himself sink into agony’s welcoming embrace, letting the pain wrap around him like a shroud, and then he opens his eyes.

 

He’s lying in a crumpled heap on the floor—his breathing stops when he shifts minutely and reopens the lacerations decorating his back, Percival having to forcibly remind himself to inhale and exhale at regular intervals. A fine tremor runs through his body as he eyes his blood-soaked shirt; dazedly, he remembers that the shirt had been white when he’d put it on. Now, it’s brown, crusted with his own blood.

 

His mouth tastes of copper; Percival’s slightly proud that he hasn’t bitten clean through his tongue yet, like what he’d expected initially. Coagulated blood line his lips and stain his teeth grotesquely, Percival spitting out fat, slimy dollops of dark crimson. He still can’t hear anything; the lack of sound is mostly what unsettles him. He’s never been good with sensory deprivation, especially since his job as Director makes it so he relies on all five senses at all times. Without his hearing…

 

He compartmentalises the razor-edged thoughts that threaten to send him into a downwards spiral. If he starts to panic, he won’t be in any shape to get out of here. Sitting up with a grunt of effort, sweat trickles into his eyes as he runs his left hand over the brick walls, his right too mangled to be of any use. One eye is swelled shut, but he can still make out details; a hysterical, humorless laugh escapes his ruptured vocal cords as he realises where he is. 

 

Mercy Lewis forgive him, he’s in his own  _ fucking _ basement. 

 

“Fucking... _ shit _ .” He wheezes out a choked snort, almost too tired to admire how comedic this is. He hadn’t noticed it before, the tiles coated with slick blood as they are, but now he’s certain. This is his own basement and Grindelwald is torturing him  _ in his own house _ . 

 

He can’t access his magic—vaguely, he can sense Grindelwald’s magical signature laced into the very bricks of the room, wards humming with significant power; it most likely restricts his magic, makes it so he’s nothing more than a No-Maj. 

 

Percival reassesses the situation. He’s not restrained, but his injuries stop him from being able to move freely. He cannot hear, his vocal cords are a few inches from being severed fully, his magic is tantalisingly out of reach and he is mildly dehydrated. All in all, not a very good start, but at least he knows Grindelwald’s short-term goals—to break through his Occlumency barriers and take his memories. 

 

He examines his mental shields, frowning tightly at the miniscule cracks he finds as he builds them back up. If he can hold out a little while longer, endure the torture he’ll be put under, he’s sure someone will eventually notice the difference between him and Grindelwald. As the Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Graves, his Lordship Ring prevented Grindelwald from Polyjuicing him, forcing the dark wizard to use Transfiguration to masquerade as Percival. 

 

The door opens and Percival forces himself not to flinch. The utter silence that remains unperturbed even as Grindelwald walks towards him makes slight fear flutter in his heart, even if he’ll never admit it. Percival’s own wand touches his forehead, the holder giving him a cruel smirk that splits his face open, like a bloody, gaping wound. Slowly, his hearing comes back, but Percival knows that there will be a catch. 

 

“Ready for another round, Director?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the chapter where percival breaks

His days and nights are spent in a haze of pain and torment—he wakes up briefly to the feeling of insistent fingers rubbing salt into his back, and passes out again. The times when he  _ isn’t _ drifting in and out of consciousness are spent gasping for breath as he’s Crucioed over and over again, until his limbs are snapped in five different spots and he can barely think without agony blurring his thoughts. The worst parts are when he’s being rocked lovingly in Grindelwald’s arms, the dark wizard humming under his breath as he repairs Percival’s failing organs, replenishes his blood supply, mends his broken bones. He’s well aware that Grindelwald needs him alive, but this little ritual of his threatens to make Percival go insane. 

 

He’s so tired of his basement. It’s easily the most unsettling place Percival has ever seen, crime scenes notwithstanding. The identical grey walls mock him with their cleanliness—after every torture session, he wakes up to see it clean as the day he was locked up in it; bloodstains miraculously disappear everytime he goes unconscious and wakes again. He can’t even tell which corner is which; the door is Disillusioned to blend in with the other walls, robbing Percival of even the small comfort of leaning against the wall, fearful that the door could slam into his ruined back and he’d have to scuttle away as fast as his wounds allowed him while Grindelwald descended down the steps, like a fallen angel ready to bring down unholy devastation upon him. 

 

He sits in the center of the room, trembling and so very, very  _ cold _ —he sings songs to himself, sometimes, to remind himself that he’s  _ there _ , that he’s tangible and that he’s still alive. His throat is almost always hoarse and raw and it hurts to speak, hurts even more to scream, but if he doesn’t do  _ something  _ to ground himself to reality, he’ll really go insane.

 

Grindelwald knows this. 

 

So when he wakes up to find that his mouth has been spelled shut, he goes straight into hysterics, clawing at his own face until he draws blood and slamming his head into the wall until bloody patches stain it—evidently Grindelwald hadn’t been expecting that, since he’d received a good old No-Maj beating for ‘nearly giving himself brain-damage’, as if his brain isn’t  _ already _ fucking damaged from the constant torture. Still, his mouth had been unspelled shut, and Percival takes that as a win. 

 

It’s strange, really. Out of all the things about being a free man, being able to interact with co-workers, being able to choose what he wants to eat and drink, being able to do whatever he wants, he misses his bed the most. Sleeping on the freezing floors of his basement nearly always aggravates his wounds, whether he sleeps on his back or not—he remembers the time Grindelwald had used his wand to slice Percival’s stomach open, blood spilling out and painting the floor crimson while Percival watched, cross-eyed and horrified, as the other man poked an intestine with a curious noise before closing his stomach back up. 

 

The criss-crossing scars that take up the entirety of his torso twinge whenever he sleeps on them, but it’s better than sleeping on his flayed back; at least, it  _ had  _ been better—until he’d woken up to Grindelwald’s steel-toed boot grinding his head into the floor, smiling disarmingly and caving in Percival’s skull with his heel. That one had been a close one; Grindelwald had sat in front of him for thirty minutes as he sealed Percival’s skull back up before berating him for being so careless. 

 

Therefore, when he opens his eyes and finds himself on a plushy, warm bed, he’s obviously instantly wary. This is  _ his _ bed. The bed Grindelwald has been sleeping on, probably, but it’s  _ his  _ bed. He chances a peek from under the covers and sees the dark wizard sitting in Percival’s favourite armchair, flicking through a case file (he scowls internally at that—they’re not allowed to bring case files home). 

 

Not wanting to alert Grindelwald to the fact that he’s awake, he lets his body sink back, curling up instinctively to shield his ribs and head from assault. He doesn’t usually sleep anymore, unless going unconscious is counted, but the few times he gets the luxury of napping, he’s curled in a corner, like a scared rabbit instead of his previous sleeping position on his side, facing the door. His time with Grindelwald has affected him, changed him right down to his psyche, down to the way he sleeps—he isn’t sure whether that fact makes him want to throw up or die. Preferably both, in that order. 

 

Percival isn’t very good at keeping track of time anymore, but it’s been about ten minutes when Grindelwald sighs and shuts the file, crawling into bed with him—the Director goes deadly still, keeping his breaths shallow as the man hovers over him. What kind of torture will it be, this time?

 

“I know you’re awake.” Percival’s eyes snap open as Grindelwald grins toothily down at him, pinning him down with his body so he can’t move, can’t escape from a torture so exquisite, so _ damming _ . 

 

Hands pull at the rags that his clothes have become as Percival’s eyes widen in terror, starvation-weakened arms pushing at Grindelwald’s chest uselessly, shaking too hard to speak coherently as words spill from the crumbling Auror’s lips, worthless words like  _ no  _ and  _ stop _ and  _ please _ —vicious curses turn to desperate pleas turn to quivering sobs, all in vain as the monster holding him down smiles victoriously at his unmaking. 

 

“Want to know how?”

 

Sharp agony arcs through Percival’s lower half, Grindelwald’s smile burnt permanently into his broken mind as his mental shields finally shatter.

 

“ _ You don’t stop screaming when you’re asleep.” _

 

**Author's Note:**

> please please please please comment!! i’m a comment whore and will gladly spread my legs for reviews :D


End file.
